The Game
by striderh
Summary: The office gets tangled up in a silly contest. Four chapters, written in pseudo-script style.
1. Chapter 1

Spoilers up to and including "The Deposition."

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**The Game**

Cold Open

EXT. SCRANTON BUSINESS PARK

(Shot of Chrysler Sebring pulling into nearly empty lot.)

(Michael is dressed for work. He looks around, checks his watch. He heads towards the entrance.)

(Michael enters the office to see the lights on but no one around.)

MICHAEL: Hello? Any-body home? Wakey, wakey.

(No one answers. He tilts his head in confusion, then walks back to the hallway, and re-enters the office.)

MICHAEL: Honey, I'm home!

(No answer.)

MICHAEL: Christof?

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF MICHAEL

MICHAEL: Sometimes, I imagine that I'm inside of a television show, or, a movie set. Except I don't know it, everyone else around me is in on it. It would explain a lot of things, like that time I ran a guy over on the freeway and I never heard another thing about it. Why didn't I get caught? Maybe, that was an actor. And this morning, I came in to the office, and no one was here.

(Office workers come in, hang up their coats while a delighted Michael watches. He tries to pull up Jim's moppy hair as if it were a wig.)

MICHAEL (V.O.): An hour later they all waltzed in, pretending they were on time. (Giggles) Who knows, maybe all of this is just an illusion. There's some guy in a tower directing my life. The life of Michael Scott, regional manager. (Excited) George Clooney, I'm played by George Clooney. He's a good-looking guy. Attractive.

(Dwight enters and starts changing the times on all the clocks.)

MICHAEL: What, what the hell are you doing to my clocks? Stop it. Stop, it.

DWIGHT: Michael, it's my duty as official office time keeper to make sure all the clocks are turned back one hour.

MICHAEL: Okay, that's absurd. Why would you do that?

DWIGHT: Daylight saving is over. It's time to fall back, (looking into camera) or as my ancestors called it "die Sommerzeit ist kaput."

CLOSE UP SHOT OF MICHAEL

MICHAEL: Wh-, that was today?

CUT TO INTRO WITH CREDITS


	2. Chapter 2

INT. THE OFFICE

(Pam sits at reception typing.)

(Jim gets up from him desk and walks to reception.)

JIM: Ninety-one words per minute. Suck on that, Beesly.

PAM: This must be a proud moment for you. I'm glad.

JIM: Don't play coy. You're jealous. Jealous of these.

(He wiggles his fingers.)

PAM: You are such a dork.

(He blows on his fingertips like smoking barrels.)

PAM: (Sighs) What's that stupid website called?

(Jim gleefully circles around into reception and starts typing at Pam's computer. Pam looks solemnly into the camera.)

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF PAM

PAM: A week ago Jim showed me a website that measures your typing speed. His best score, after a full day at work, was seventy words-per-minute. I did it once and got eighty-eight. (Pause) I really should have let him win.

CUT TO RECEPTION

(Pam types rapidly as Jim watches over her shoulder.)

JIM: Seventy-five words per minute?

PAM: Oh, darn. I guess you're better than me.

JIM: Oh, no. No way are you getting out of this that easy.

PAM: Jim, if I beat you, you'll just keep playing and-

JIM: If you can beat me, which I think you can, and I'm gonna stay here until you do.

PAM: Do I really have to?

JIM: Yes. Well, no I guess you don't have to, if you want to make your boyfriend really, really sad.

(She thinks it over for a second.)

PAM: I think I can live with that.

JIM: Please, Pam?

(Michael walks to reception.)

MICHAEL: Oh! Jim, you nasty, nasty boy. What kind of position is he asking you to do?

JIM: Oh, actually we're just um …

MICHAEL: (Mocking voice) Just um, err, durr.

PAM: Jim just wants me to take this test to see how fast I can type.

MICHAEL: Oh, a test? Well that sounds fun, what kind of … can I see here?

CUT TO SHOT OF MICHAEL IN HIS OFFICE

(Michael eyes are darting quickly from the computer monitor to the keyboard.)

MICHAEL: The … quick … brown … fox … jumps … over … the … lazy … (Stops typing and clenches his teeth). Dammit.

(He clicks his mouse a few times and starts the test over.)

(Dwight enters Michael's office.)

DWIGHT: Michael, I've completed my time sweep and I'd like your permission to- Michael?

(Michael continues typing. He gets frustrated and pushes the keyboard away.)

MICHAEL: This is so freaking … guh! (Turns to Dwight) Happy? I was on a record pace and you totally screwed it up.

DWIGHT: Record pace for what? Is it a Guinness record? Because if it is you need an official observer. I can get one here in thirty minutes.

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF DWIGHT

DWIGHT: I once set a Guinness world record for fastest turkey plucking. Did it in a minute flat. On a live turkey.

CUT BACK TO MICHAEL'S OFFICE

(Michael pulls the keyboard back towards him and starts again. Dwight circles around to see what he's doing.)

DWIGHT: A typing test? What's your best score? I can do a hundred on my custom built rig at home.

MICHAEL: That's impossible, I can't even get forty.

DWIGHT: You're not doing it right, you got to put this hand here and your left pinky should be on the shift key-

(Dwight tries to change the position of Michael's hands as he's typing.)

MICHAEL: Don't, don't, Dwight you're screwing me up, no, I don't like it … you know what Dwight? If you're so good, you do it.

DWIGHT: Thank you, I will.

(Dwight sits down and starts typing at a blistering pace. Michael watches him with bitterness. He stops Dwight before he's finished.)

MICHAEL: Okay, hotshot. Time's up.

DWIGHT: No, there's still a minute left-

MICHAEL: If you want to play so bad go do it on your own computer. This is my computer and only I'm allowed to play games on it. (Checks himself) And I will do that on my break, not on company time.

CUT TO SHOT OF DWIGHT AT HIS DESK

(He's staring at his computer screen while typing quickly. He never looks down. Jim notices this and studies his technique.)

DWIGHT: Yes! One hundred.

JIM: Dollars in your bank account?

DWIGHT: No, Jim, one hundred words per minute.

JIM: That's impossible.

DWIGHT: And for your information, I have over a thousand dollars in my bank account. And it's not impossible, because I just did it, look for yourself.

(Jim leans over to see.)

JIM: You were actually telling the truth.

DWIGHT: Yeah, Jim, you ought to try it sometime.

JIM: I tell the truth all the time.

DWIGHT: Like when?

JIM: Your haircut is ridiculous.

DWIGHT: What? That's a lie. And your haircut's ridiculous. Now leave me alone, I have to beat Pam.

JIM: Excuse me, what did you say?

DWIGHT: I have to beat Pam? She's up to a hundred and five. I can overtake her by lunch.

(Jim swivels in his chair to study Pam. She's on the phone and looks back with a cheerful smile. Jim shakes his head at her. She's confused and mouths back "What?" Jim just smiles and turns back to his desk. He starts the test again.)

(Andy glances over at Dwight and Jim. They are engrossed in the game. Andy leans over to whisper to Stanley.)

ANDY: Something weird is going on-

STANLEY: I don't care.

(Andy leans over to whisper to Phyllis.)

ANDY: Hey Phil-do, do you notice something-

PHYLLIS: Don't call me that.

(Andy gets up and walks over to Dwight's desk.)

ANDY: What's up D-dog? Whatcha playing there?

DWIGHT: (Not looking up) This is not a game. This a test of mental and physical dexterity.

ANDY: Typing game, huh? I'm a pretty good typist myself, four-point-zero in keyboarding at Cornell.

(Jim mouths "Cornell" to the camera at the same time.)

DWIGHT: (Scoffs) Those classes don't teach you anything.

ANDY: Well, what college did you go to?

DWIGHT: Didn't go. Taught myself everything I needed to know out of library books. My education cost me a dollar fifty in late fees.

(Jim looks up from his computer with a curious expression.)

JIM: That's Good Will Hunting.

DWIGHT: Uh, completely unrealistic movie. There's no way a janitor is that smart. Or that good looking.

(Jim looks into the camera.)

ANDY: A hundred words per minute, eh? Not bad for a rookie.

DWIGHT: Please, you couldn't do any better.

ANDY: Keep telling yourself that. See you hombres in thirty minutes. (Starts backing away) Or less.

CUT TO ACCOUNTING

(Angela writes a note, making sure Kevin and Oscar don't notice. She folds it up and walks to Andy's desk. He's playing the game.)

ANGELA: Hello, Andy. How are you doing?

ANDY: (Lifelessly) Good, good. What's going on … with you?

ANGELA: I'm fine. Thank you for asking. Here's the report you asked for.

ANDY: Uh huh. Great, just leave it there and I will- dammit! Can't believe I- dammit! (Bangs the keyboard)

(Angela is a little shocked by his reaction. She takes a look at his computer screen.)

ANGELA: What is that?

CUT TO ACCOUNTING

(All three accountants are mesmerized by the typing game.)

ZOOM IN ON ANGELA

ANGELA (V.O.): No, I don't approve of playing games during work hours.

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF ANGELA

ANGELA: (Can't bear to look in camera) But it's fun.

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF KEVIN

KEVIN: I'm not very good at it. (Raises both palms) My fingers are like hot dogs. (Looks at his fingers hungrily)

CUT TO WIDE SHOT OF THE OFFICE

(Everyone has the exact same glazed over expression on their face. The only sound is that of frantic typing.)

(Toby enters from the annex. He watches the scene with a befuddled expression.)

CUT TO MICHAEL'S OFFICE

(Toby enters.)

TOBY: Michael, I think you ought to know something- (He sees Michael is doing the exact same thing)

MICHAEL: Unless you're quitting or committing suicide, I don't care.

TOBY: Michael, the entire office is absorbed in this typing game. Nobody's working. (A beat.) Including you.

(Michael stops playing to glare at Toby.)

MICHAEL: Well, Toby, if you're here and not at your desk, then, what are you doing? Not working. So, catch-22.

TOBY: (Confused) That's unfair, I've been working all day-

MICHAEL: I'll tell you what's unfair, Toby. (Turns to his computer) This stupid, stupid typing game. The longer I play, the worse I get, and the more my fingers hurt. But if I stop I'll never get better.

TOBY: That's a catch-22.

MICHAEL: Yeah? You're a catch-22.

TOBY: Do you actually know what that means?

MICHAEL: Do you actually know how much I want to … (resists finishing the sentence) Sometimes, I wish I could stay home just to avoid seeing your ugly face. But then I'd get fired. So I come to work, and then I see you, and I want to quit. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

(Toby peeks sideways into the camera.)

TOBY: Catch-22.

MICHAEL: Wh-, why do you keep saying that? Just get out. Out.

(Sound of Toby closing the door as Michael continues playing.)

CUT TO DWIGHT'S DESK

(A crowd has gathered behind Dwight. His tie is undone and streams of sweat pour down his face. His fingers are flying over the keyboard.)

KEVIN: He's so got it. He's so got it.

OSCAR: This is insane. He can't keep it up.

PHYLLIS: I can't even read that fast.

ANDY: Dwight, my man! (Sean Connery voice) Punch the keys!

CREED: 2 to 1 says he doesn't break it.

KEVIN: 3 to 1 and you're on for fifty dollars.

CREED: Deal.

CUT TO RECEPTION

(Pam watches on with disgust. She looks over to Jim, who has huge smile on his face. Jim draws a hand across his throat. Pam shakes her head.)

CUT BACK TO DWIGHT'S DESK

ANDY: Dwight! Dwight! Come on people!

(Angela rolls her eyes but doesn't leave.)

ANDY: Dwight! Dwight! Dwight!

(Dwight presses one last key with a flourish. The crowd hushes in anticipation for his score. They cheer as one.)

DWIGHT: Yes! One hundred and seven! Eat that Pam!

(Pam doesn't like the sound of that.)

ANDY: What a beast!

(Michael emerges from his office. He's taken off his jacket and his sleeves are rolled up.)

MICHAEL: What is going on out here?

ANDY: Dwight just broke the office record for fastest fingers. Give me some skin. (Hold out an open palm)

DWIGHT: No thank you. I might injure them.

MICHAEL: How many, uh, words per minute?

JIM: One hundred and seven.

DWIGHT: (Devilish grin) Rock one-oh-seven.

(Michael's clenches his jaw in frustration.)

JIM: What's your best score so far, Michael?

MICHAEL: (Murmuring) Forty-two.

JIM: Excuse me, wh-

MICHAEL: Forty-two!

(Kevin snickers.)

MICHAEL: Oh, is that funny Kevin?

KEVIN: No. But I can do sixty-nine with these (holds up his hands).

MICHAEL: Oh, okay, well you know what. Who cares about a stupid game? It doesn't prove anything.

JIM: It proves how fast you can type.

MICHAEL: So what if you can (mimes exaggerated typing). Bleh. It doesn't mean anything. It's useless.

OSCAR: Actually, quick typing is a necessary skill for a lot of jobs.

PHYLLIS: Yeah, like Pam, she has to type fast because she's a receptionist.

(Pam doesn't like the sound of that.)

JIM: Or a paralegal.

STANLEY: My nephew is a court clerk, he has to type sixty words per minute or he loses his job.

MICHAEL: Okay, okay, just … no more games. This is a place of work and we will not be doing this today. Or any day. Say hasta manana to the typing game.

(Several workers furl their brows in confusion. Toby walks in from the kitchen.)

TOBY: I heard a commotion, is everything all right in here?

(Michael stares at him spitefully. Toby gets the hint and goes back into the kitchen.)

MICHAEL: Good. Good. And the next person that types anything on their keyboard will be punished. Dwight, keep an eye on them.

DWIGHT: Yes, sir!

(Dwight yanks his keyboard free from the computer and tosses it aside. He stands up to see if anyone dares lay a hand on their own.)

ANGELA: How are we supposed to use our computers without a keyboard?

(General murmurs of agreement.)

MICHAEL: You should have thought of that before you abused them. Keyboards are a right, not a privilege.

(Michael goes back into his office. He watches them through the blinds.)

(The employees sit back down at their desks and stare at the computer monitors.)

CUT TO COMMERCIAL


	3. Chapter 3

INT. MICHAEL'S OFFICE

(Michael is putting into his automatic return cup. He misses completely and drops the putter.)

(The phone rings. Michael presses the speakerphone.)

MICHAEL: Who is it?

JAN (O.S.): Hey babe, it's me.

MICHAEL: Hey Jan. (Grumbles)

JAN (O.S.): Michael, what's wrong?

MICHAEL: Jan, how fast can you type?

JAN (O.S.): I, um, I don't know. Seventy, eighty words a minute.

(Michael reels back in his chair and groans.)

JAN (O.S.): Michael. What is going on?

MICHAEL: Nothing. It's stupid.

JAN (O.S.): What's stupid?

MICHAEL: I can't type as fast as the other kids.

JAN (O.S.): (Disbelief) I … Michael, that's hardly any cause for concern.

MICHAEL: Jan, what am I good at?

JAN (O.S.): You are a great salesman.

MICHAEL: I mean, something that you can measure, like, with a score.

JAN (O.S.): Well, Michael, you were the top salesman, in dollars, two years in a row.

MICHAEL: Okay, something that other people in the office think they can do well, but that I'm actually better at.

JAN (O.S.): Michael, this is ridiculous-

MICHAEL: See! I'm just an average Joe. Not even average. I'm the crappiest Joe.

JAN (O.S.): You know what, I bet you can ice skate from one end of the rink to the other faster than anyone else in the office.

(Michael lifts his head up and his eyes open wide.)

CUT TO THE OFFICE

(Michael bursts out of his office.)

MICHAEL: Attention everyone, important announcement.

OSCAR: Michael, can we use our keyboards now? It's been over an hour.

MICHAEL: If you want to dink around on your precious keyboards, go ahead, that game is so yesterday. People, we are going to the Stadium Ice Rink, pronto.

DWIGHT: Why are we going ice skating? (Alarmed) Is it your birthday?

MICHAEL: No, just for kicks. Maybe have a little contest, see who's the fastest. Whatever.

JIM: I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually have work to do.

MICHAEL: (Makes a throat noise) Come on, all expense paid. Courtesy your favorite boss. Whaddya say?

(People stare at him like he's crazy. Stanley picks up his phone and makes a call.)

JIM: Michael, is this about the typing game?

MICHAEL: No, it is not about a stupid game. Can't a guy just take his friends out to the ice rink for a series of competitive sprints?

KEVIN: We know you're the fastest. You're the only one with your own ice skates.

(Angela lowers her eyes. Oscar looks off to the side.)

MICHAEL: That's not the point, we can't know for sure until we prove it.

KEVIN: No, I'm pretty sure you are.

DWIGHT: Pretty sure? (Scoffs) Fact: Michael has taken skating lessons since he was three years old. Fact: He holds the state hockey record for least number of fights. Fact: Michael was invited to try out for the Penguins.

JIM: Really? You tried out for the Pittsburgh Penguins?

DWIGHT: No, the Wilkes-Barre Scranton Penguins.

MICHAEL: Okay, same difference. And they almost took me. (Looks nervously at the camera)

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF MICHAEL

MICHAEL: I was this close to making it. Aced the first day of auditions. Missed the second day playing House of the Dead in the lobby. Took me twenty dollars to beat that son of a bitch. Coach wasn't too impressed.

CUT BACK TO THE OFFICE

KELLY: Wow, so you were almost a professional athlete?

MICHAEL: Yes, yes I am.

ANDY: That's quite an accomplishment, Michael.

PAM: Yeah, I wish I could play a sport as well as you.

MICHAEL: You're a woman. You wish you could play a sport, period. (Guffaws)

JIM: Ladies and gentleman, Michael Scott, one-time near-professional hockey player.

(He starts a slow clap. The office employees all join in.)

(Michael is genuinely pleased, but slowly takes on a forced smile.)

(The employees stop and go back to work. A little sad and confused, Michael heads back into his office.)

CUT TO THE BREAK ROOM

(Kelly and Pam are sitting down. Dwight is putting coins into a vending machine.)

KELLY: That is so cool. I used to be really good at basketball, like, good enough to play for money. But have you seen those girls in the WNBA? They are so manly, it's not even funny.

PAM: I'm sure they're very nice women.

KELLY: I mean, if I were in front of thousands of people, I'd at least wear a little foundation. And concealer. And mascara. And-

DWIGHT: There is one, and only one, kind of professional athlete that needs to wear makeup.

PAM: Figure skaters?

DWIGHT: Incorrect. Rodeo clowns.

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF DWIGHT

DWIGHT: I once considered a career in rodeo clowning. It pays well and they have an excellent union. The health benefits are amazing.

CUT TO MICHAEL'S OFFICE

(Michael is on the phone while looking at the computer screen.)

MICHAEL: Yeah, I know the season's already started, but hasn't someone broken a rib or sustained a concussion … oh, really? Ah, my apologies and I hope he comes out of that soon. So does that mean there is an empty spot on the roster?

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF MICHAEL

MICHAEL: You know what? It's never too late to cash in on your dreams. Or your God-given athletic talents. On the outside I may be forty-three years old but here (points at his heart), and here (points at his head), I'm a twelve-year old boy.

CUT TO THE OFFICE

(Michael emerges from his office.)

MICHAEL: Listen up, people. I've made an important decision today. I may no longer be the regional manager of Dunder-Mifflin Scranton.

(Stanley shakes his head and gets back to work.)

DWIGHT: Michael, who will be taking your position?

MICHAEL: My number two, of course. Jim-bo.

ANDY: And where will our fearless leader be going?

MICHAEL: Pending a physical and a successful tryout, which I will succeed at, I will be the newest member of the Wilkes-Barre Scranton Penguins. First line forward.

PAM: Michael, you can't really expect …

(Michael glares at Pam. She looks in the camera.)

PHYLLIS: Michael, you're not young anymore. You might get hurt.

MICHAEL: Well, Phyllis, apparently we're the same age, so … you might get hurt. How's that make you feel?

PHYLLIS: Well, I don't want to play hockey.

JIM: Michael, you're forty-three years old. You can't honestly expect to keep up with guys half your age.

MICHAEL: Some of the greatest athletes in history played well into their forties. Roger Clemens, Cy Young winner. Barry Bonds, home run king.

ANDY: They used steroids.

MICHAEL: Well then I'll use steroids.

JIM: That would be illegal.

MICHAEL: Then I won't get caught.

PAM: Michael, steroids can cause health complications.

MEREDITH: I have a cousin in Connecticut who uses steroids. His head looks like (looks at Kevin).

KEVIN: Hey …

MICHAEL: Okay, fine, I won't use steroids and anyway, I don't need them. I am a chiseled, finely tuned specimen. (Tries to rip shirt off but the buttons hold.)

JIM: Wow, I really don't think you need to-

(Michael pulls harder and the shirt bursts open to reveal his pasty, hairy body.)

(The female employees all cringe. The males stare in shock.)

CUT TO COMMERCIAL


	4. Chapter 4

CUT TO COMMERCIAL

INT. MICHAEL'S OFFICE

(Jim knocks on the side of the door.)

JIM: You wanted to see me?

(Michael swivels around. His shirt remains open.)

MICHAEL: Yeah, take a seat.

JIM: Everything okay?

MICHAEL: Yeah. I just … you seem like a put-together kind of guy. Great job. Good looking. Hot girlfriend.

JIM: Um, Michael, some might say you also have those things.

MICHAEL: (Ignoring him) I just thought I would be further along. I'm forty-three. I'm unmarried. No kids. Hell, even Toby found someone to marry him and (gags) have a kid with him.

JIM: But now you've got the hockey thing.

MICHAEL: Don't be stupid. I'm never going to make it. Never going to happen. I will work here until I'm sixty-five. Nine-to-five for twenty-two more years.

(Both Michael and Jim are sobered by the thought.)

JIM: Thirty-seven.

MICHAEL: Thirty-seven what?

JIM: Years. I could be working here for thirty-seven more years. Wow.

MICHAEL: Well, you're still young. Marry Pam, spit out a few kids, live the dream. I have a kid now, God, I'll be dead by the time they get to college.

(Jim doesn't even flinch.)

JIM: Uh huh.

MICHAEL: Yep.

JIM: Yep. Dead.

MICHAEL: Dead as a … skunk.

CUT TO RECEPTION

(Jim walks up.)

PAM: You two were in there for a while.

JIM: Yeah. (Picks out a piece of candy)

PAM: Hey, look at this. (Gives Jim a piece of paper) Corporate saw the logos I drew. They want me to come down, this weekend!

JIM: All right Pam! (High five) This is great! I'm really proud of you. (Leans over to kiss her)

PAM: Thanks, Jim.

JIM: This calls for a celebration. Dinner tonight. Your choice.

PAM: Yay! Oh, I almost forgot, Ryan mentioned the possibility of a permanent position in New York. He said their graphic designer is due for retirement anyway.

(Jim is subtly less excited.)

JIM: That's … that would be awesome. It's what you've always wanted.

PAM: But if I got it, which I probably won't, but if I did, I wouldn't go unless you wanted to come with me.

JIM: Oh, no Pam.

PAM: You wouldn't come with me?

JIM: No, I mean, you should definitely go, if they want you.

PAM: And you'd come with me?

JIM: (Sweetly) Of course.

(The phone rings.)

PAM: Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam.

(She mouths "I love you" to Jim. He smiles and turns to walk back to his desk. We see his face fall.)

CUT TO BREAK ROOM

(Michael is chewing idly on a Luna bar. He stops, realizes he hates it, and puts it down.)

(Creed enters.)

CREED: Michael, what kind of steroids do you need? I have a friend sitting on a shipment of Strychnine. It ain't fancy, and it might kill you, but the price is unbelievable.

(Michael leans back and stares at Creed.)

MICHAEL: How much?

CUT TO ACCOUNTING

(Jim walks over and hands a folder to Kevin.)

JIM: Thanks, Kev.

KEVIN: Hey, Jim, are you coming to our concert tonight? Scrantonicity Two, my band, is battling, Scrantonicity One, the evil band, and the loser has to pick a different name.

JIM: Sounds great, but actually I'm taking Pam out to dinner.

KEVIN: Nice.

JIM: Yeah, but good luck!

KEVIN: Thanks. Oh, we're also auditioning for a backup guitarist. Pam said you could play.

JIM: She did? I don't really-

KEVIN: Our practice schedule is really lenient. Most of the time we just buy pizza and watch T.V. It's great.

JIM: That does sound great, but I haven't really played in a long time.

KEVIN: Well, let me know if you change your mind.

JIM: I will.

CUT TO SHOT OF JIM'S COMPUTER SCREEN

(He has the Second Life game open. His character is flying around.)

(Jim notices the camera is watching and closes the program.)

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF JIM

JIM: Yeah, when I was in college I wanted to be a journalist. Even younger than that, probably from age twelve, I had this dream of being a sports writer. But things don't always work out like you planned. And for the better, I think.

CUT TO THE OFFICE

(Jim looks over at Pam. She gives him a cheerful wave.)

(Dwight pulls nose hairs while on the phone.)

JIM (V.O.): If I was a sports writer in Philadelphia, I would never have met Pam. I also wouldn't have met Dwight. I can't imagine life without him.

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF JIM

JIM: Well, actually I can, and it would be incredible. And guitar, that's something I can do any time, it's not a big deal. Just … I think it's a little too late to start over. I'd have to get an internship, work a few years. And there's only so many sports writing positions out there. It's just, it's impractical. I'm happy where I'm at now.

(He looks away from the camera.)

CUT TO THE OFFICE

(The employees are leaving for the day.)

(Jan enters. She looks inside the office, where we see Michael staring out the window.)

CUT TO MICHAEL'S OFFICE

JAN: Hey, babe. Feeling better?

MICHAEL: Hey, Jan.

JAN: Are you still thinking about the typing thing?

MICHAEL: No, not anymore. That is the least of my worries.

JAN: Well, what is the greatest of your worries, Michael?

MICHAEL: We're so old.

(Jan is affronted.)

MICHAEL: Nothing turned out like it was supposed to. No wife, no kids. I live in a condo.

JAN: Well, everyone has to start somewhere. As for a wife and kids … maybe those things are closer than you think.

MICHAEL: They are?

JAN: What do you think we've been doing together all this time? Just having fun?

MICHAEL: Yes? I mean, no?

JAN: Michael, if you're serious about having children, then maybe it's time we, you know …

MICHAEL: But we have sex all the time.

JAN: Right. But I've been on birth control.

MICHAEL: Oh, really? That explains it.

JAN: But before we do that, maybe we'd better, you know …

(It takes Michael a few seconds to take the hint.)

CUT TO INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF MICHAEL

(He's got a self-satisfied grin on his face.)

MICHAEL: Forty-three ain't that old.

CUT TO COMMERCIAL

INT. THE OFFICE

INDIVIDUAL SHOT OF ANDY

ANDY: Yeah, I'm a professional athlete. Been one since college.

EXT. COLLECTIBLE CARD STORE

(Andy checks to make sure no one's watching and slips inside. We see him sitting down across from small children playing some kind of card game. He celebrates zealously. The kids aren't so happy.)

ANDY (V.O.): I'd rather not say in what sport. My fraternity bros would kill me if they found out. But I've won over three thousand dollars in prize money and store credit.

CUT BACK TO ANDY

ANDY: So … pretty sweet.

CUT TO BLACK


End file.
